“Ay, I know well enough. I want you to marry Hadrian, I tell you.” She was dumbfounded. He was a man of few words. “You’ll do what I tell you,” he said. She looked at him slowly. “What put such an idea in your mind?” she said proudly. “He did.” Matilda almost looked her father down, her pride was so offended. “Why, it’s disgraceful,” she said. “Why?” She watched him slowly. “What do you ask me for?” she said. “It’s disgusting.” “The lad’s sound enough,” he replied, testily. “You’d better tell him to clear out,” she said, coldly. He turned and looked out of the window. She sat flushed and erect for a long time. At length her father turned to her, looking really malevolent. “If you won’t,” he said, “you’re a fool, and I’ll make you pay for your foolishness, do you see?” Suddenly a cold fear gripped her. She could not believe her senses. She was terrified and bewildered. She stared at her father, believing him to be delirious, or mad, or drunk. What could she do? “I tell you,” he said. “I’ll send for Whittle tomorrow if you don’t. You shall neither of you have anything of mine.” Whittle was the solicitor. She understood her father well enough: he would send for his solicitor, and make a will leaving all his property to Hadrian: neither she nor Emmie should have anything. It was too much. She rose and went out of the room, up to her own room, where she locked herself in. She did not come out for some hours. At last, late at night, she confided in Emmie. “The sliving demon, he wants the money,” said Emmie. “My father’s out of his mind.” The thought that Hadrian merely wanted the money was another blow to Matilda. She did not love the impossible youth—but she had not yet learned to think of him as a thing of evil. He now became hideous to her mind. Emmie had a little scene with her father next day. “You don’t mean what you said to our Matilda yesterday, do you, father?” she asked aggressively. “Yes,” he replied. “What, that you’ll alter your will?” “Yes.” “You won’t,” said his angry daughter. But he looked at her with a malevolent little smile. “Annie!” he shouted. “Annie!” He had still power to make his voice carry. The servant maid came in from the kitchen. “Put your things on, and go down to Whittle’s office, and say I want to see Mr. Whittle as soon as he can, and will he bring a will-form.” The sick man lay back a little—he could not lie down. His daughter sat as if she had been struck. Then she left the room. Hadrian was pottering about in the garden. She went straight down to him. “Here,” she said. “You’d better get off. You’d better take your things and go from here, quick.” Hadrian looked slowly at the infuriated girl. “Who says so?” he asked. “_We_ say so—get off, you’ve done enough mischief and damage.” “Does Uncle say so?” “Yes, he does.” “I’ll go and ask him.” But like a fury Emmie barred his way. “No, you needn’t. You needn’t ask him nothing at all. We don’t want you, so you can go.”